Her head hurt. Her chest ached. She hardly wanted to move, but she touched herself, fingers sliding up her naked body, over her scars, to a tender spot just above her right breast. There was a bandage there. She remembered the gun, the sprout of a dart against her body. Her inner elbow was sore, too. She found needle marks.
Rikki took a deep slow breath and turned her head. Past the bed, she saw creamy walls and dark wood trim, polished floors of the same kind and color. The air smelled sweet and cool, filled with the soft ambient glow of gentle lights shining from the ceiling. On the other side of the bed, on the nightstand, she found an artful arrangement of orchids. And beyond that, a large window that overlooked the jungle. It was light out, but only just— dawn or twilight, there was no way to know.
Rikki sat up, clutching the sheet to her breasts. At the bottom of the bed she saw a folded set of soft clothes, also white, as well as a set of tennis shoes. And on top of those, much to her surprise, was the scalpel. Her precious little blade. It made her think of Amiri. She hoped he was safe.
She slid out of the bed, looking for cameras. Found nothing, but that meant little. She dressed quickly. Located a bathroom, dark and rich with wood and marble and glass. Opulent. She stood inside, looking at herself in the mirror. Her face was gaunt, eyes glassy. Every bone stood out.
Taking a hot shower would have probably made her high, but she did not feel comfortable exposing herself like that. She felt vulnerable enough, just using the toilet.
She splashed water on her face, smothered herself with a soft clean towel, and went back out into the room. She thought about trying to break the window—a chair might do the trick, or there was always the lid from the toilet. Even her own body, if she got really desperate.
Try the door first, stunt girl.
So she did. And it opened. Rikki held her breath, listening, but when no one raised the alarm, she poked her head into the hall.
It was empty—except for some magnificent decorating. Rikki wasn’t sure whether she wanted to live in this place forever, or find some matches and burn it all down.
She stepped into the hall and closed her door. Started walking—listening hard, moving on light feet. She held the scalpel in one hand. Passed many doors, all of which had electronic locks and security pads set into the wall.
The hall was long. Rikki began to worry she might never find the end of it, but after several minutes of rising panic, she heard the gurgle and churning bubble of water. A fountain. The air began to smell like orchids again.
Rikki entered a large cavernous room, at the center of which was a magnificent stone sculpture that looked like nothing more than some mountain cliff torn off its edge and then planted, perpendicular, in the center of a rock pool. Water flowed down its ragged sides, the crevices of which were filled with dangling moss and orchids, occasionally shrouded by delicate ferns. Below, inside the deep waters of the pool itself, swam monstrous koi as long as she was tall, parting the waters beneath lily pads and flowers.
She heard giggling, took a step back, raising the scalpel…just as two children ran into view. One of them to her shock was Kimbareta. Still wearing that whistle, though his clothes were different. Like Rikki—white, easy, a jogging outfit.
The boy skidded to a stop when he saw her, and she dropped to her knees, holding out one arm. He threw himself against her body, clutching her neck. The kid might not know her worth beans, but Rikki was gratified that he seemed so happy to see her face.
“You okay?” she asked him, her French rather poor. The boy nodded against her shoulder, and she rose slowly, holding on to his hand. In front of them was another child, one Rikki had not see before. A girl, no older than eight or nine. She was lovely—brown skin, high cheekbones, and hair that curled and flowed, shot through with gold.
Her eyes were gold, pale and rich as metal.
Rikki stared. “Hello.”
“Hello,” said the girl, first in French, and then English. Utterly composed. “Who are you?”
“My name is Rikki. And you?”
“I am A’sharia.” Spoken with the dignity of a young queen. Rikki thought she could see a resemblance to someone she knew, and it made her light-headed.
Kimbareta stiffened. Rikki turned. Broker stood behind her, flanked by Marco. Terror clawed up her throat, but she took a deep breath, and then another, forcing herself to stay calm, sharp—in the moment, second by second. She could do this. She was going to survive.
“Already awake and about,” said Broker. “I gave you enough sedative to leave anyone else unconscious for three days.”
Rikki shrugged. “So?”
He raised his brow. “It’s only been ten hours.”
“Good metabolism.” She squeezed Kimbareta’s hand. “Why are these children here?”
“They are my guests.”
“People don’t keep children as guests. Not unless they have a good reason.”
“Ready to fight for them?” His smile widened. “Never fear, Doctor Kinn. I may
hire
perverts, but I can assure you, my proclivities do not run any younger than the age of good intellectual discourse.”
Which was not a terribly satisfying answer, but as good as she could hope for. Rikki swallowed hard, squeezed Kimbareta’s hand one more time for good measure, and then gently pushed him toward A’sharia.
Broker said, “Go on. Both of you play.”
The children looked at Rikki with some pity, and gave Broker stares of incredible distrust. He made a shooing motion. A’sharia grabbed Kimbareta’s hand and tugged. They ran away. Very fast. No longer laughing.
“Smart kids,” Rikki said dryly.
“Most are,” Broker replied, and held out his hand. “Please join me, Doctor Kinn.”
Rikki did, though she refused to take his hand. Indeed, she still held the scalpel—though she failed to see any use in stabbing Broker, as crushing his skull had done little to hinder him. Nor did he seem at all troubled that she was carrying it around in such an obvious manner. She was not much of a threat, apparently.
She held the scalpel tight though. Felt better for it. A nice, sharp accessory.
Marco smiled. Rikki wanted to set his eyebrows on fire. She ignored him and kept pace with Broker. He led her down another hall, this one considerably shorter. At the end of it was a large dining room, finely appointed, mostly empty. Moochie and Francis sat at the far end, eating. They looked up when she walked in, but only briefly, and showed nothing on their faces.
Broker held out a chair for Rikki. She sat, facing a long line of windows overlooking the jungle. Marco took a seat nearby. A small round woman emerged from behind a swinging set of doors and looked at them enquiringly.
“Tea or coffee?” Broker asked.
“Arsenic,” Rikki said. “Lighter fluid.”
“Bring both,” he said to the woman, with discomfiting ambiguity.
“I was expecting a house of horrors,” Rikki told him, her palm sweaty around the scalpel. “This feels more like a resort.”
“I prefer luxury to cold sterility,” Broker replied. “It makes my work easier.”
“Kidnapping, torture, the manufacture of biological weapons …”
“High enterprise. Very lucrative.”
“Money isn’t the reason you do it,” she said, searching his eyes. “Not in the slightest.”
The woman returned carrying a tray laden down with coffee and a pot of hot water, with tea bags, lemon, and sugar. No chemicals or poison. Not now, anyway. Broker took coffee. Rikki began steeping her tea. Such a normal thing to do. So mundane.
“What do you want from me?” she asked him. “What is the point of all this?”
“Why did your father go to prison?” Broker asked, watching her over the rim of his cup. “Why did he die?”
Her breath caught. “That’s not relevant. Or your business.”
“Answer the question.”
She cut the tip of her thumb on the scalpel. “No.”
Broker smiled coldly. “He went to prison because of you. Because he was
protecting
you. Voluntary manslaughter. Murder, in the heat of passion.”
She felt Moochie and Francis watching. Saw Marco’s greasy-lipped smirk on the edge of her vision. Ignored them all, staring into Broker’s cold, cold, eyes. “You already know.”
“I know about the child molester who moved into the neighborhood. A man whom your father found standing outside your window in the middle of the night. And I know about the baseball bat he took to that man’s head, pounding it into pulp.” His lips thinned, and he stroked his temple. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?”
Rikki could hardly breathe. “Why are you doing this?”
“Ask instead why your father reacted as he did. Instinct? Need? Because it was the right thing to do?” Broker tapped the tabletop. smiling idly. “We all have reasons for our actions, Doctor Kinn. All of us righteous, even at our most abhorrent.”
“He was a good man,” she whispered. “The best.”
Broker raised his brow, that ugly smile flitting across his mouth. “He would have been free by now, isn’t that correct? It was a three-year sentence. Three years, and he was dead after only twelve months. Stabbed twice in the gut. All because he committed himself to protecting you.”
She threw her cup of tea at him. He knocked it aside. Hot water sprayed everywhere. Chairs scraped back; Marco was ready to jump across the table, but Broker held up one hand, and with the other, wiped water from his burned cheeks.
“Wildcat,” he said. “I like that about you.”
“You must like something more than that,” Rikki replied shakily, heart racing. “One woman out of six billion, and you choose to make my life your business. What have I got to offer someone with your connections?”
Broker stripped off his jacket and laid it across the table. His body was trim, well muscled beneath the damp spots in his fine white shirt. “Your description is apt. Six billion people in this world. All of them different. No two alike. Why is that, Doctor Kinn? What makes each of us unique?”
“Our DNA,” she said, after a brief pause.
Broker smiled. “Exactly.”
Impossible, ridiculous. “I don’t understand.”
“Oh, I believe you do.”
Rikki wrestled with the idea, and her opinion did not change. “You want something in my DNA?”
He did not confirm or deny, but the answer was there in his silence. Rikki sat back, studying his face, those cold dead eyes that could not hide themselves, no matter how much he tried to smile.
Tread carefully,
Rikki thought, clutching the scalpel under the table. She said, “Assuming I believe you, how the hell do you know I have what you want?”
“As I told you, Doctor Kinn, I make it my business to know many things.”
“But in my case?”
His eyes narrowed. “There was a man, once, who was very powerful. He lived a very long time. And he had many children. He left behind a strong bloodline, Doctor Kinn. Many lines, all over the world. And it was once my job to track them.”
Rikki had to wrap her mind around that concept. “You’re implying I’m a descendant.”
“I am implying nothing.”
“This is crazy,” she retorted.
Broker stood. “Come along, Doctor Kinn.”
Rikki did not want to move. She wanted to fight. To take the scalpel still gripped tight in her hand and make her own slasher flick.
But a little voice told her to move, and she got up. So did Marco, Francis, and Moochie. One big party. In the Congo. In the house of a psychopath. She hoped Amiri got here soon.
Flanked by the mercenaries, Broker led Rikki down the hall, past the stone fountain, and down another passage that was less decorated, the halls wider. They passed no one else, and she heard nothing but the sounds of breathing, the rustle of clothing. And yet, there was nothing empty about the facility she moved through; she could feel the unseen presence of others, suffered that weight as she passed doors, and curtains covering sections of wall beside those doors. The air smelled like a hospital, cold and sterile.
Broker pulled aside one curtain as they walked, letting it fall back almost immediately. Long enough to reveal a window. Long enough to show a woman sitting on a cot in a white padded room. Mireille. Cradling her face.
Rikki started to stop. Francis nudged her. She said, “It wasn’t her fault.”
“I know,” Broker said, and stopped. “Here we are.”
Rikki hesitated. Marco grabbed her arm. Broker opened the door and she saw an examining table inside. Straps. Stirrups.
She swung with the scalpel and caught Marco in the shoulder. He roared, slamming her into the wall. She hit it hard enough to bounce, but she ignored the pain and tried to run. Francis caught her around the waist. Moochie grabbed her arms. Marco wrenched the scalpel from his shoulder and lunged. Francis side-checked him with his hip.
Broker said, “Get her inside.”
She kicked. She screamed. She tried to bite, but Francis was quick and Moochie stayed out of range. They got her on the table, just barely, taking her blows with soft grunts. Marco tried grabbing her feet. She clocked him in the face and his nose spurted blood.